Superior Posteriors, and Footie Pajamas
by Lawless67
Summary: The guy in 4B is the literal worst. Why does his face have to be so stupidly attractive? Jay/Tim horrible neighbors AU. T for language.


**A/N**: I am the worst. So I know I haven't updated in a while, but my brain refuses to function except for this trash. So yes, this is my first slashy-ish fic. I don't even know. Blame tumblr, which I am now a part of. The link to my blog can be found in my info.

* * *

The guy who lives in 4B is an _asshole._

Which is unfortunate, because, you know. Tim hasn't exactly seen his face or anything except his back (his butt, ok, his butt) when he bends over to scoop his newspaper from where the building's less than competent delivery boy had left it lying on the rug outside his door.

Tim is always too late slipping out his own door to actually say anything to the guy—about his loud music, about the way his pet cat or dragon or whatever the hell it is scritches against the wall that divides their apartments, about how—in their two years of living next to each other—the guy still has not learned his actual address and packages addressed to one Mr. J Todd crowd Tim's box until he complains to the manager _again_. The guy times it that way, Tim knows it, and he's always just in time to catch the cheery, dismissive wave the guy flips him before he and his superior posterior disappear again.

Still, it's unfortunate, because what little of the guy Tim has seen is extremely attractive in a way that almost makes Tim want to forget about his annoying habits.

Almost.

It is 4am, and there is a kid at the door wearing an obnoxiously multi-colored windbreaker and carrying an armful of food that he most definitely did not order.

Tim has a presentation in 5 hours, and he hasn't slept more than an hour because of that damn _cat-dragon-spawn-of-Satan _trying to claw holes through his bedroom wall.

So, Tim thinks, he is commendably calm in the face of extreme adversity. He pays the kid, because it's not his fault, poor clueless, overworked child, and takes the three pizza boxes the kid holds out in turn. They are an appalling combination of pepperoni, pineapple, and spinach—his neighbor is a _savage _who won't _learn his own address. _

Tim slides on a pair of moccasins, straightens his hair, and marches next door, armed with a stack of pizza.

Tim once attended a seminar on power poses, body language, and the proper strength for a handshake. He feels that knocking should also fall into the category covered by the seminar, because he wants to convey _I mean business_, but not _this is the police/your ex-girlfriend on a rampage/the commander of an invading race of aliens._

He needs more sleep.

The door swings open suddenly, just as Tim is about to slump in defeat, and _oh god, oh god, what do I say._

The guy towers over Tim, reaching past six feet like it's nothing, long legs and broad shoulders and built to match his height. He is wearing—Tim does a double take—what appears to be a pair of footie pajamas featuring Scooby-Doo and the gang. Only, the top half of the onesie has been unzipped, leaving his chest bare, and the arms are tied around slim hips.

Tim makes a sound somewhere in the range of _nngh, _and he hasn't even looked at the guy's face yet.

The guy says, "Hey," and Tim finds himself and the pizzas being pulled into the apartment and the door shut behind him. He briefly hopes that his neighbor is not an axe murderer.

"Uh, er," Tim stutters as he is divested of the pizza. "You—"

"It's ok," the guy says, pulling plates and glasses from cabinets, pushing Tim into a chair, "I'm not, like, a serial killer, or anything. I'm Jason," he adds, as if this explains anything, "and you're the pretty hermit who lives next door."

_Oh_, thinks Tim, _he's Jason_. There is no seminar to prepare one for being summarily kidnapped by one's reclusive, footie-pajama-wearing neighbor with a face somehow more attractive than the previously admired butt.

"I am not a hermit," is what comes out of his mouth, which is well, not great, but ok at least. And then, "You're pretty," in an accusatory manner. Ah, hell.

Jason sets a plate piled with the questionably topping-ed pizza in front of him and rumbles a disgustingly appealing laugh.

"Thanks, neighbor. Say, pretty not-hermit, you got a name? Since I'm sharing my pizza with you, and all."

"Technically, it's my pizza since I paid for it," Tim grumps. "It's Tim Drake. Wayne," he inserts belatedly.

Jason's brows lift. The eyes underneath are a fascinating chameleon-y blue. "No kidding," he says, completely ignoring the first part of Tim's comment, "Drake-Wayne. Trust fund baby, youthful genius CEO. Lord, I've been living amongst the upper crust and didn't even know it."

Tim squirms, and then jumps as something furry brushes across his foot.

"Sorry," Jason says, dragging a ball of white fluff into the open unconcernedly. "This is my lady Afro, short for Aphrodite. She makes herself overly familiar with our guests."

Tim's dragon estimation was not far off. The cat swipes at Jason's petting hands. He coos at her before tossing her casually into the other room. The last thing Tim sees is the peeved lashing of a tail.

Jason grimaces. "I'll pay for that later. Females, man." He takes a large bite of pizza, drops into a chair, pushes it closer to Tim's than Tim is comfortable with. "So. What's the heir apparent of Gotham doing on my humble doorstep?"

This is his chance, Tim thinks, this is it. He has a list written precisely for this purpose.

But Jason's face is close to his. He's got his feet resting on the bottom rung of Tim's chair, elbows on his Scooby-Doo-covered knees, stubbly chin propped on a fist. And _Jesus Christ, he has the eyes of a Disney Princess. _His asshole of a neighbor has Disney Princess heart eyes, and laugh lines, and the most ridiculously attractive case of bedhead Tim has ever seen.

"Your, uh, your pizza. It was getting cold," he finishes pathetically. What has his life come to?

Jason smiles beatifically, leaning closer. "You're a doll, you know that, pretty Tim? A real doll, and I like you."

"Thanks," Tim responds, rather dazedly. "I, um, do you like books?" he fishes desperately. "I only ask because, well, you see a lot of your mail gets delivered to my apartment, and I was thinking—not that I looked—but several of the packages were rather book-shaped. They felt like books, is what I mean to say. And that would be cool, um, if you liked to read, because…well, not many people do. I do, though. Like to read."

"Yeah?" Jason grins. "Happens I like to read, too."

Tim is staring at Jason's pajama-clad knees now. "And you like Scooby-Doo and the gang. My brother used to call me Velma. Because I think too hard, he said, and I wear glasses. Sometimes."

Jason squints like he's picturing Tim such, smiles. "I see it. Velma is a badass, you know."

"Oh," Tim says, because he has never been great at accepting compliments. "I should—I should go. I have to—presentation tomorrow, and you…"

Jason stands abruptly. "Yeah. Yeah, ok." He sweeps into the kitchen, leaving Tim standing there awkwardly for a moment.

He's back then, and he pushes several things into Tim's hands, guiding him towards the door.

"Homemade banana bread, cranberry jam," he lists, but Tim can barely think for the heat of Jason's hand on his back. "I made way too much jam the other day, and Afro refuses to even sniff it ever since I accidentally spilled some on her. Eat them together or separate, doesn't matter. I've had some failed experiments in the past, so if you don't like it you won't hurt my feelings."

Tim is done for. Absolutely done for.

"And, hey we'll have to do this again some other time, when it's not 4am and my cat isn't acting as a subtle but effective suppressor of canoodling."

"Look," Jason says, after Tim has hem-ed and haw-ed and blushed to the roots of his hair, "I'm into you. And I think we should go out some time. Plus I feel kind of guilty for having all my mail delivered to you, so it'd make me feel better to pay for something. But not too much of something, because I'm poorer than dirt and you're a gajillionaire. Don't argue, I know it's true."

Tim doesn't argue. He may or may not give a startlingly accurate impression of a turtle. Jason doesn't seem to mind.

"God, you're cute," he says, smacking a kiss to Tim's cheek and pushing him out the door. "Come back tomorrow, when my striking good looks no longer mute you."

Tim blinks, left standing in the hallway, arms full of _homemade banana bread, _for God's sake. He drifts dazedly back to his apartment.

The next day Jason hugs him in the hallway and calls him Velma and Tim finds himself going out to dinner with his weird, good-looking, footie-pajama-wearing neighbor (though, of course, he does not wear the pajamas on the date). And it is a date, right? Tim asks this, hesitantly, bluntly, and Jason says, "you absolute sweetheart" and squishes Tim's cheeks, which Tim supposes is a yes.

Jason is still an asshole, but Tim can't bring himself to mind. He never does learn his own address. In the end, he doesn't need to.


End file.
